January 2, 2001
The Nigerian experience up ‘til May 29, 2000 has been the topic of a lot of articles, news, views and commentaries throughout the civilized world as the country became a test case for all who were looking to learn lessons of how to run a country aground.
The decent into disrepute has been credited to the Nigerian military, specifically, the Nigerian Army. Well, that was not always the case.
From early childhood, I became enamored by the sight of well-starched and ironed uniform and the sound of drums beating time and trumpets blaring glories of our colonial masters.
Little did I know then that I would one day be signing the dotted line at the enlistment counter during the most trying period in Nigeria’s checkered history. That was December 8, 1969.
I literally sneaked out of my uncle’s house where I had been groomed and nurtured for the past six years to take the long walk to the 2nd Division HQ, Agodi, Ibadan. It was a cool Monday morning.
Having given the recruiter all my vital statistics, I was ushered into a waiting tractor-trailer with about 120 other rookies oblivious of what awaits them behind the barbed wire fence surrounding the 3rd Battalion army barracks at Mokola.
There was mixed emotions on the trailer as some screamed their heads off, some curiously studied the tree-lined roads while a few others like myself could make anything of our decision to join.
Nevertheless, this was a point of no return. To bail out now would mean to be declared AWOL. Oh, no. Not me, I thought to myself. Moreover, the future looked a bit more promising for me in service than as a bloody civilian where I had to compete for jobs with fresh school leavers from the many high schools all around.
As we approached the 3rd Battalion gate at Mokola, the short stop at the railroad track right at the gate, as if by design, served to signal the end of civilian life and the transition into the stoic lifestyle of an infantry soldier.
My admiration for the soldiers on parade with their well-ironed uniforms, their shining boots and the perfect formation on the parade ground heightened my excitement. In a few hours from now, I thought, I would look just as sharp as those men on parade. Come on, let’s go, I kept saying to myself as I anticipated the welcome party behind the gate. I was not disappointed.
We evacuated the truck and, like a bunch of wild roosters, we were all over the place. Suddenly we were jolted back to reality by this roaring voice emanating from a man with three V-shaped stripes on both of his shirtsleeves. L’rine nr’up, he belched.
Not wishing to incur the wrath of this mighty one, I was among the first to comply. That promptness to obey to avoid reprisals became my saving grace for all my six-and-a-half years in service.
The six-week training started out fine. The dormitory rooms were clean and the single beds and mattresses were new. We were marched to the quartermaster’s post where each one received his issue of supplies.
Next was a stop at the barbers’ post under the mango trees. No one had any choice in the style of haircuts. In a matter of less than one hour, most of our individual distinctions had vanished and we all now look almost alike, the distinguishing characteristics being our individual height and the hue of our skin. Outside of that, we all looked alike.
The first few days were like heaven on earth until we had to adjust to waking up at 4 o’clock in the morning for foot exercise. Not only were out night sleep cut short but we in turn retaliated on the sleeping world around the barracks with the sonorous sound of our marching songs, Sgt. Kurfo Kaji Rwaka, whatever that meant. Such became routine and, after a while, we weren’t bothered anymore. We kind’a liked it even.
My posting was quite simple and straightforward. I was a special enlistment which means after rookie training, I would go straight to my specialty corps, which in my case was the education unit.
I was met at graduation by my two superiors, one a corporal and the other a lance. They helped to clear up a slight error that could have sent me straight to the battlefront. We had heard so much about the battle at Ore and never wished to be sent there. Well, some were, but not me. O le ku, ija Ore, sounded cocky when spoken from this side of the Biafra divide.
My sojourn in the Nigerian Army was an interesting one.
After two years of service, I was actually thinking of making a career of it except for the one man at 2 Div HQ, Agodi, Ibadan. That much-dreaded man was Colonel Makanjuola. He being the 2 IC (second in command) at the time put the fear of God in every soldier.
The sight of men tied to trees behind the HQ building was enough to make a good soldier out of you. Those men, tied in a standing position, remained that way until the colonel’s good side swung in their favor and he ordered their release.
Many a man went insane following that treatment under the stars. Others never recidivated. In fact, had it not been for the godly and courageous commander of my education unit, Lt. Col Olu Omoniyi, I might have tasted of Makanjuola’s cup of wrath.
But the good Lord was all the time looking out for me.
My trepidation about continuing as a soldier was allayed with the reposting or retirement of Col. Makanjuola - never knew what happened to him. He just didn’t show up one day and never after that. Rumor had it that he was forcibly discharged on some allegation of wrongdoing. It was all too fuzzy, but it was like a great pressure cooker had lost its steam.
No longer did we have to fear walking to the kitchen at lunchtime to avoid being sighted by the colonel who might have been having one of his bad days. We just felt a great relief.
But then came another colonel named Abacha.
He was training officer for the division, but he shook everybody up real bad. Although I never saw him face to face except at the army officers mess where he always was in good spirits having been in touch with the bottled spirits. His sojourn as training officer sent me back to training camp, this time for three months.
Well, I made the most of it by always being at the head of the pack for parade or other duties. I learned one lesson there, however, Never volunteer for anything.
Well, I volunteered for the training at the first call only for Abacha to order it canceled after the first batch. Oh, no. But nonetheless, it was beneficial for me because there in the jungles along Ibarapa Road where we camped, I had the first close encounter with a deadly African snake - after it had been killed of course.
By my third year as a good soldier, I had a spiritual experience after going to the chapel one day.
My whole being changed and I began to enjoy the service more. But the more I psyched myself into remaining in service the more my inner man resisted.
Although I along with others in my unit had been recommended for promotion a few times, none of us ever got it. I later found out it was because no one from our unit followed up the petition to the chief clerk’s office where we could have laid some naira on the forms for the services of the clerk who had the arduous task of sending the papers to force headquarters in Marina, Lagos.
By my fifth year of service, I received the greatest shock of my career.
Arriving at the office one morning, I was one of my colleagues, a lance corporal, with three V-shaped stripes on each of his brand new uniform sleeves. I couldn’t believe it. Friday, we all ate together at mammy market bukateria, but come Monday I was supposed to answer him yes, sir.
Well, I had to comply on the outside, but on the inside I was defiant. Not long after that, another and another of my colleagues were receiving new ranks that catapulted them from being common non-commissioned officers (NCOs) to higher ranks.
To add insult to injury, none of them would tell me how they got their new ranks. They just brushed off the question each time.
I knew our commander hadn’t sent any new recommendations to division headquarters since the last one of about eighteen months prior, but there were all my squad mates flashing brass bars on their shoulders or white stripes on their sleeves.
Whoever colluded to give them those ranks was smart, however. I noticed that each one received a rank commensurate with his level of intelligence ranging from sergeant to lieutenant. Chei, the chief clerk and his ways. They probably greased his palms accordingly as well.
Anyway, as I continued in the innocence thinking that one day our commander would recommend us for more promotions and I would get mine, it never happened. Just about every name on the list got better than the commander recommended them for. Every name except mine got promoted and it was because I never followed the trail blazed by my traitor colleagues. A beg, man must wack o jare.
After paying homage to all these officers in my unit and a few others in other units whom I knew did not earn those ranks without bribing the chief clerk, I decided to call it quits.
I started to hatch out a plan for my disengagement twelve months to my sixth year of service, early enough, I thought, to make it through the protocol and be on time for the scheduled date. No, it did not happen. December 1975 came and went.
I checked every communiqué to our unit commander and no such paper for my discharge ever showed up.
My frustration was heightened at the thought of having to go see the chief clerk to inquire about the status of my request for voluntary discharge. But one day I finally did and was not surprised when he told me what I needed to do. I left without obliging his request. I would not contribute to the delinquency of any man nor put another nail in the coffin of my favorite corps of the Nigerian military.
I waited and waited and waited until one day I decided to pay another courtesy call on the chief clerk. Knowing my position on such things he looked at me over his half-goggle and, with a furrowed brow said, “I have no delivery to Lagos, but if you can pay the fare for my orderly to take it you might get a reply soon.” Still adamant, I gave him the military salute, turned around and left. But I needed to get out this god-forsaken corps.
About three more months passed and I still had not heard any reply. I finally had to decide where or not to oblige the chief clerk or die of frustration saying ‘yes, sir” to those I once tutored and still had to assist.
One Monday morning in the month of June, I mustered enough courage to go see the chief clerk and pay his orderly to take my discharge request to Lagos. It was a big blow to my conscience, but I did give the requested amount the chief clerk requested, an amount inflated about ten times the normal fare to Lagos. I knew, however, that the papers would be mailed and not hand-carried as I was told.
Two weeks later I was greeted with an envelope postmarked Lagos emblazoned with the coat of arms of the Nigerian Army. I opened the envelope and was so overjoyed at the reply. My discharge date was set for July 4, 1976. I was very happy, but my colleagues, now my superiors, were very sad. No longer would they have me for their target practice. No longer would they have me to run their errands including going to fetch them a bottle of Star Lager or Gulder from mammy market. I was free at last.
When now I read about all those weeping generals and how they cowered in front of a lower ranked officer “to save their necks” I laugh.
Those were the new breed of officers being raised by the army around 1975-76; officers not worth the thread their khaki pants were made of.
I saw the cowardice in those who were fresh graduates from the Nigeria Defense Academy (NDA) as well as those “my mother trained me” soldiers rising up through the ranks and occupying positions of leadership.
I saw the future as it was being nurtured by those men and saw no good picture both for those men and, sadly, for the nation of Nigeria.
What we are now witnessing is nothing but those chicken-eating soldiers hatched in the seventies coming home to roost. There are still a few of them left in the service and until they are all rooted out, the Nigerian Army is on an uphill battle trying to salvage its reputation.
They all must go.
They have no place in a civilized nation or in any arm of its military.
Needless to say, that all of the ones I knew about who “bought” their ranks were south westerners. And you wonder about Diya and Adisa begging for their piece of bread? Chocolate cream soldiers them all.
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